"
"The grape," mused Carmichael. "You will never learn how to press it as
they do in France. It is wine there; it is vinegar this side of the
Rhine."
"France," said the vintner moodily. "Do you think there will be any
France in the future?"
Carmichael laughed. "France is an incurable cosmic malady; it will
always be. It may be beaten, devastated, throttled, but it will not
die."
"You are fond of France?"
"Very."
"Do you think it wise to say so here?"
"I am the American consul; nobody minds my opinions."
"The American consul," repeated the vintner.
Gretchen could now be seen, wending her return in and out among the
clustering tables. She set the tankards down, and Carmichael put out a
silver crown.
"And do not bother about the change."
"Are all Americans rich?" she asked soberly. "Do you never keep the
change yourselves?"
[Illustration: "Are all Americans rich?" she asked, soberly.]
"Not when we are in our Sunday clothes."
"Then it is vanity." Gretchen shook her head wisely.
"Mine is worth only four coppers to-night," he said.
The vintner laughed pleasantly. Gretchen looked into his eyes, and an
echo found haven in her own.
Carmichael thirstily drank his first tankard, thinking: "So this vintner
is in love with our goose-girl? Confound my memory! It never failed me
like this before.
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